


we sail together

by retorica



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fix-It, Jonsa!Boatsex, Possessive Jon, Protective Jon, S7E7, Smut, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retorica/pseuds/retorica
Summary: 7x07 do-over. In the wake of receiving a strange letter from Jon, Sansa decides to attend the Dragonpit meeting, after all. Jonsa!Boatsex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who here felt victimized by the finale? *show of hands*. I'm not in the business of denying myself small pleasures, so I am totally revamping that episode. Yes, I'm taking J*nerys boatsex and making it Jonsa, sue me. Actually, you probably won't since, if you clicked here, you want to read this, hopefully? If someone else's already done this, I'm sorry, but there can't be enough fix-it fics, in my opinion. So, some stuff is a bit AU and the chronology is different. I have Jon sending Sansa a letter telling her he's bent the knee *before* he and Dany leave to meet Cersei. So that gives our girl some time to show up. Anyway, this will probably be a 3-part affair, but we'll see where the inspiration takes me (and yes, i know i have two other Jonsa stories pending!)

 

_Sansa,_

_Daenerys Targaryen has pledged her dragons and her forces to our cause. We sail now to King’s Landing to bargain with Cersei Lannister. If we survive this war, I have pledged our forces to Daenerys as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We will return soon to organize the defense of the realm._

_Jon Snow. Warden of the North._

 

 

_Warden._

Her thumb traces the word until it fades from the parchment.

 

 

It’s a gamble.

Cersei Lannister wants to see her head on a spike in the Red Keep.  But she can’t sit here and wait for her fate to be decided.

She hopes she’s doing the right thing, the right thing for their home. Her father thought he was doing the right thing too, and look where he is now.

More than anything, she’s angry. Angry in a way she hasn’t felt in a while. She’s learned to be cold-blooded and bury any strong emotions behind a veil of decorum, but that short, presumptuous letter undid all her years of forbearance. She wants to scream. She wants to gnash her teeth. Even her sweet direwolf, Lady, thirsted for blood sometimes. 

 

 

So now she prepares to travel south.

She once told herself she would never step foot below the Neck again, but she must remember that no promise is sacred anymore, not even the ones you make to yourself. Jon has taught her that, to her bitter surprise.

 

 

She decides to take a small retinue of Vale men to accompany and guard her. Lady Mormont insists she take a score of her men as well. Sansa wants to refuse the little lady her kind gesture but the stubborn child gets a fierce look in her eye. You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.

“You are _our_ Lady of Winterfell, and we will not lose you too!”

Sansa is secretly touched. But she is also troubled. Already, there’s been rumors that Jon has bent the knee. She has tried to keep the letter secret, but Maester Wolkan reads all missives, and while his tongue is not loose, there are servants who listen at the doors and have access to his quarters.

Winterfell is rife with speculation these days and it is getting harder to abate it. 

Sansa knows perfectly well that leaving might make it worse. She knows that any disaster could befall her and she might not return. This might be the _last_ time she sees her home. And she is leaving it, willingly.

_After all, I’m a big a fool as father._

 

 

Arya wants to accompany her south, to be her protector and her executioner. She’s taken a liking to the calling, much to her sister’s distress. But Sansa reminds her that in her absence _she_ must guard and rule Winterfell in her stead. Bran does not seem apt for it, in his present state of mind.

“You are the Lady of Winterfell now.”

Arya’s face wrinkles in disgust. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

Sansa is reminded of their childhood so vividly that she pulls her sister to her chest and squeezes her tight. It is a show of affection so unlike them that Arya pulls away and looks up at her with concern. “Sansa, don’t go.”

“I have to. "Do you remember that horrible letter that Cersei made me write? The one you were so angry about?…It resembles this one very much.” And she pulls out the message from Jon. 

Arya nods halfheartedly. For once, her perfect image of Jon has been altered, and she doesn’t know how to cope with it. “Aye…it looks like they’re forcing his hand.”

“That’s what I believe too.” _That’s what I **want** to believe_ , Sansa thinks to herself.

 

 

She sends a raven to Lady Brienne to let her know she is coming. She asks her sworn shield to meet her before she reaches the capital. She will board a ship from White Harbor, as it will make the journey faster. She has to arrive in time and treat with the Queen of Dragons face to face.

_Warden._

The word is like ashes in her mouth.

 

 

From her small cabin, she sees dark snow clouds on the horizon. Winter is coming south after her. The thought should not cheer her as much as it does.

 

 

“It’s…your lady sister, my lord,” Lady Brienne informs him uneasily. He has asked her not to call him “your Grace” anymore, as it is no longer accurate.

“What is it? What’s happened to Sansa?” he demands, eyes going wide with fear.

“Nothing, my lord, but she has decided to attend the Dragonpit meeting in person. I am to accompany her from the harbor.”

Jon staggers for a moment. His demeanor turns a sickly grey. “She’s coming _here_? To King’s Landing? She _can’t_ – it’s not safe! Tell her I won’t have it. She has to listen –”

“I’m afraid it’s too late to stop her, your-…, my lord.”

 

 

Daenerys notices his strange mood swings, though he tries his best to conceal them. He is either vexed and impatient, or somber and silent. In the evening, he grinds his teeth so loudly, one might be able to hear him all the way in Essos.

“Jon, I will make sure your sister comes to _no_ harm. I promise you this. Have I failed you before?”

Jon smiles wanly and nods. She is right, of course. He is being foolish. It must be that he’s tired and beset by too many worries. He lets her take his hand in hers, as she runs soothing circles into his palm.

“Your hands are so gruff and calloused. I like that,” she tells him.

Jon is thinking that Sansa held his hand like this before the Battle of the Bastards, and they were both discouraged and frightened of the future, but she was determined to die, if need be.

Jon turns towards his new Queen. “I think I’ll go for a walk to clear my head.”

 

 

Privately, Dany thinks he is far too preoccupied with his sister. It almost reminds her of – of Viserys.

The memory is painful and uncomfortable. It’s strange. Viserion died only a fortnight ago, and yet there is his shadow in her heart.  

 

 

Sansa stands on the main deck and holds a pair of field glasses to her eyes. She can’t believe this is the same capital that kept her prisoner, that robbed her of her family and her innocence. She almost doesn’t recognize it anymore. Everything looks old and cheap and withered. There is a great gap in the middle of the city, like a tooth which has rotten and fallen away. The Sept of Baelor is gone. The Mad Queen burned it until there was nothing left.

 _She could do the same to me_ , she thinks with a shudder. But she cannot turn back. 

 

 

The Dragonpit might be a ruin, but it is a magnificent one. It stands upon Rhaenys’ Hill like a gaping mouth, ready to swallow whatever comes from the sky. Sansa thinks even dragons would find the thing menacing. But she must be wrong, for when she lifts her head up, she sees the wings of a great beast, coming to land there.

Sansa stops, frozen in place. The dragon seems to block the light of the sun. He is black and thunderous, and when he turns sideways, the ridge of his back is a smoldering red.

So, it is all true. 

Brienne pushes her gently forward. “Come, my lady, we don’t want to be late.”

“I think we already are,” Sansa mumbles, feeling suddenly like a young girl again.

They ascend the Hill with their small retinue. Even before they reach the main escarpment, Sansa can hear the voices. Someone is laughing crudely.

_Laughter? Who could be making japes right now?_

She straightens her back stiffly and walks forward like her mother once taught her. They must not see her weak or cowered.

 

 

Euron pauses in his mockery and turns around to see who has entered the pit. His nephew is entirely forgotten when he spies the red beauty before him. He’s not so utterly stupid to think Cersei Lannister would ever marry _him_. But this sprite young thing, whoever she is...

He hops down the steps and walks towards her to greet her.

“By the Drowned God himself, I do believe this dull gathering has been improved.”

The big ugly woman steps before him and grabs her hilt. “You will stand aside for Lady Stark.”

“Lady Stark? Ohoho, so you’re the wolf boy’s sister? If I’d known he had such a fine little –”

“That is enough, Greyjoy!”

Surprisingly, it is Cersei who rises imperiously and puts an end to his little flirtation. _She must be jealous, ha!_ he thinks happily.

When he looks back towards the terrace, he sees that wolf boy is frothing at the mouth. He’s barely keeping himself from rising and lunging at him. But the Bitch of Dragons is keeping him on a tight leash.  

 

 

Sansa doesn’t even bother with the Greyjoy. He may look dangerous and he probably is, but the horrors of this world run much deeper than a man and his cock. She’s learned that from Ramsay. She walks steadily towards the terrace, keeping her breathing even. She saw Jon the moment she entered the pit, sitting by the right side of the Dragon Queen, but she doesn’t allow herself to look him fully in the eye because she doesn’t know what her face might betray. She does glance at the Mother of Dragons, because it is impossible not to notice her. Her hair is white like silver, her complexion is delicate but firm, her eyes are almost purple in this light. She is indeed a beauty, as Littlefinger said.

Sansa stops before Cersei Lannister and her blood doesn’t congeal like it used to when she was brought before the Queen. Now, it only stirs with bad memories.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Cersei has nothing but unconcealed rage and hatred to show her, and Sansa is almost proud to be the recipient.

“Your Grace,” she says coolly, and curtsies dutifully.  

“Lady Stark,” Cersei drawls, venom dripping from her lips. “How _good_ of you to honor us with your presence. This meeting would be in vain without your sage wisdom, I’m sure.”

Sansa clenches her jaw. “I hope I can be of service, your Grace. I leave wisdom to your charge.”

Cersei’s lip curls. “I see you’ve remained the same pretty little idiot as before, showing up here with only a handful of men, deigning to look me in the eye after all you’ve _done_.”

Jaime grunts uncomfortably and signals for his sister to stop. This is not the place or time.

“I will look elsewhere if that pleases your Grace,” Sansa remarks coolly, still staring directly at her.  

Cersei’s nostrils flare.

Sansa can feel the tension rising like a precipitous wave, threatening to crumble these dour ruins. She hears her brother shifting in his chair, restlessly seeking her eye.  

Luckily, Tyrion Lannister comes forward just in time to prevent his sister from lashing out.

“Lady Stark, we are, of course, grateful for your presence. The more of us, the better. You are the Lady of Winterfell and therefore, essential for our campaign north.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she says with a small smile, which only irks the Mad Queen more.

 

 

Dany has to place her hand on his arm and squeeze. 

“Jon,” she whispers. “Please, don’t make a mess of this.”

Jon nods reluctantly. Cersei’s eyes may be filled with hatred, but she can do nothing to his sister here, not while he has Longclaw in his belt.

 

 

The talks go on strenuously, but they do go on. Tyrion gives the signal for the undead to be brought up.

Sansa gives a start. She would recognize that face anywhere. It's hard not to. Sandor Clegane is dragging a large crate behind him. She can’t believe it’s him, after all this time. She presumed he was dead. 

The Hound meets her eye…and then quickly looks down.

_What's happened to you, old friend?_

 

For the first time since she can remember, Sansa sees pure dread installed on Cersei’s face. Not even in the direst hour of the Blackwater siege, when Stannis was almost at the gates, did she betray such an expression of terror.

The wight has truly horrified her, but will it give her reason? Will it overcome her pride? 

Jon leaves his chair and walks towards the undead corpse. “Only two things can kill a wight.”

And he brings forward a burning torch and a shard of dragon glass.

Sansa watches him with rapt attention. He is always a passionate speaker when the cause is right. She has missed him, missed his voice and his manner, though she can hardly own up to it now.

When he turns towards her, she looks down in her lap.

 

 

Cersei clenches and unclenches her fingers. “The Crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy.”

Everyone seems to issue a collective sigh, as if a great hurdle has been surpassed. All their sacrifices have not been in vain. Sansa doesn’t know if she wants Cersei as an ally. She certainly doesn’t trust her. Being an enemy is truer, somehow. More dependable.

But the Queen is not done.

“In return, I ask for two things. The King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannisters, he will not choose sides. I believe I can trust Ned Stark's son to do that.”

The Northern audience considers this carefully. Sansa senses there must be a trap in here somewhere. It sounds as if she is giving them an incipient form of independence, but it must be a trick. If they survive this war, will the North still remain neutral?

Jon is inclined to agree to her terms, she can see it. So is Ser Davos. Daenerys nods her head wanly. She is not happy, but this will do just as well. It’s the best they can hope for.

“And the second thing,” Cersei adds sharply, pausing for effect. “You must disinherit your _sister_ and strip her of any rights to succeed you, should you die. If she ever has any sons, they will _never_ hold any power in the North. Those are my conditions.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Even a dragon could not break it.

Sansa can hear the blood rushing in her ears. Jon has turned white as a sheet. His lips are trembling. His eyes have turned blacker than the dragon glass he holds in his hand.

 _Jon_ , Sansa wills him to hear. _Jon, don’t let her goad you. Don’t play into her hand._  

But it is Lady Brienne who speaks up, unattended. “Your Grace, is it truly just to issue such a condition to a brother?”

Sansa closes her eyes. _Oh, Brienne…_

There's a perverse sense of irony in the innocent knight's words. Of course Cersei would know all about _brothers_. Her vicious eyes turn to Sansa's sworn shield. “ _Who_ gave you leave to speak? I will not be interrupted by a traitor. I should have your head on a spike for defending that little _whore_ -”

There is an audible gasp in the audience. Daenerys turns to her Hand in a panic, but Tyrion is just as speechless as her. 

Jon steps forward menacingly and it almost looks like he is about to stab the Queen with the dragon glass. Instead, he says in a tone of pure and utter loathing. “The North _defies_ the Crown and will forever be allied with the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Targaryen.”

Afterwards, there is mayhem. Accusations and shouts and reprisals. It all goes to _shit_ , if Sansa is permitted to say. Just like Cersei wanted, to be sure.

In the chaos following Jon’s words, no one hears him say quietly to the Queen, “When your time comes, I will be there to see you die.”

No one, but Sansa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason, i kept listening to selena gomez's "fetish" while writing this. which yeah, the song's quite fitting. we're getting closer to boat!sex, but first some pining and some unresolved tension. thank you so much for your kudos and support!

 

  
Jon is keenly aware that he has lost some favor with Daenerys. She tries, as calmly as she can, to tell him that she appreciates his "loyalty", but that it should not have been proven in such an impulsive manner. She won't say it, but it  _chafes_  that he was so blinded by Cersei's insult that he threw Dany's name in the ring, as if his allegiance to the Mother of Dragons was nothing better than an insult. She won't spell it out for him, because it would chafe even more, but she hopes he will realize, in time, that she is not some kind of foreign mouthpiece, to be spent between the North and the South's squabbles. 

"This is not how I wanted to gain support, Jon Snow." 

Jon lowers his eyes, shame-faced, though inside, he is still seething, still wishing he could crush the Lannister Queen's windpipe.

He does not regret his actions as much as he should. And perhaps that guilt makes up for the lack of other guilts.

It comes to him again - the realization that he was never good at  _this_  part of ruling: the insidious politics, the veiled words, the double entendres. He might be sensible and cautious when the situation does not concern him, but as soon as family gets involved, he loses his head. 

The Queen of Dragons picks up the frail skeleton of a dwarfed dragon. No bigger than a common lizard. She heaves a sigh. 

"This is what becomes of dragons when they are kept in captivity, when they are defeated."

Jon stirs himself from his thoughts. "You won't be defeated, your Grace. I promise you."

"You make many promises, Jon, and I know you mean to keep them...you are honorable to a fault. But how can I trust that you won't doom us all just because someone spoke ill of your sister?"

"Cersei -"

"I  _know_  what she said was horrid, I know her conditions were unacceptable, but you should have kept your tongue and not given her what she wanted. She  _wanted_  this meeting to fail."

"Forgive me, my  _Queen_ ," he says coldly, in a way that no queen truly wants to be addressed, "but I could never allow for my sister and her heirs to be made bastards." 

Daenerys clenches her jaw. "You could have  _lied_."

"What?"

"You could have told my sister yes and then simply rescinded on your word later," speaks a voice behind them. Tyrion Lannister hobbles towards them with a miserable countenance. "That is what our Queen means."

Dany nods. "Precisely."

Jon is fingering the fringe of his fur coat, the coat Sansa made for him. He looks around him, as if in search of an object to anchor himself to. Lady Brienne and Sansa sit together at the other end of the pit and he can't see his sister's face. 

"Aye, maybe it would've been easier to lie...but I can't gamble with my sister's future. I won't. When enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. I can't let that happen.”

Daenerys looks at him with a renewed sense of admiration, though it is tempered by the notion that he is willing to upend their fate for the sake of his family. His sister’s fate matters more to him than the fate of their war, it seems.

She can’t help but think she would have been better off _without_ such an honorable man.

Tyrion clears his throat. Between Ned Stark’s delirious offspring and Mad Aerys’ proud daughter, the only one who can fix this is a sad, unwanted dwarf. 

“I will go speak to my sister. If anyone can anger her more than Jon, it’s me.”

“Is that a wise course? To inflame her even more?” Daenerys asks warily.

“Oh, yes. The trick with Cersei is to get her so fired up that she will forget the previous offense.”

 

 

Sansa wishes she knew what she felt. Anger and annoyance would be easy to cope with, easy to digest. Disappointment and frustration would help to navigate these deep and dangerous waters. But she only feels a strange mixture of unidentified emotions, each more contradictory than the next. She wants to remain upset with Jon, because he’s still _Warden_ of the North, and he as good as declared it in front of Cersei. But she can’t ignore the way he spoke on her behalf, the way he defended her. The way he threatened the most dangerous monarch of Westeros for her. The only time Jon wore his rage so openly was when he confronted Ramsay on the battlefield. Sansa still remembers how her brother almost killed him with his bare fists.

It confuses her too. Jon bent the knee to Daenerys, disregarding her opinion, sacrificing his people’s freedom. But he was not willing to broker peace between the queens if it harmed his sister in any way. She wonders now what would have happened if she had been here _earlier_ , if she had gone with Jon to Dragonstone, if she had gone with him beyond the Wall, impossible as that may be… Would he have submitted so easily?

She can’t avoid his somber gaze any longer. She can feel his eyes on her back. Insistent, pleading.

She leaves Brienne’s side and walks slowly towards him.

Jon points to a crevice between the ruins, a small place where they may speak in privacy. It’s not a good idea to slink off together when everyone is watching. But she doesn’t know if it matters at this point.

She slips between the rocks and stands with her back to the stone. Jon stands opposite from her. If she reached out with her hand, she could touch the furs she sewed for him.

Their eyes speak before their mouths do. It’s always been that way with them. There’s something effortless in their silent back and forth. Do all the Stark children have this, she wonders? Do they communicate like their direwolves? _Of course, mine’s dead._ But maybe it doesn’t matter. The connection is there.

And so they stare at each other for a few moments. She can read penitence and remorse in his grey eyes. _I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I should’ve stayed home_. _I never should’ve got involved._ But she also reads in them an unwillingness to go back, a fierceness that makes room for no regrets. _I did what I had to do._ _I did it for us, for our home. There wasn’t any other way._

Sansa stares at her feet. She will not give him satisfaction yet. She will not let him explain. If she does, he might try to convince her. He might even succeed. She has a weakness for her brother, and she doesn’t want to forgive him yet. She is Lady of Winterfell. She has a duty to observe. 

_Warden of the North._

“What do we do now?” she asks. "I assume you have a plan beyond making a scene." 

Jon issues a soft laugh. He can never keep a straight face with her. “I don’t know. I’ve done a right mess of it.”

“That’s why I’m here. To untangle your mess,” she replies with a bite to her voice.

Jon leans forward unconsciously. “You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe.”

“You're not glad to see me then? I did not notice,” she replies tartly, and it is meant as a sarcasm, but her tone betrays her and it comes out quite different.

Jon’s eyes soften. His lips parts. “Of course I'm glad. I missed you. Missed having your voice in my ear.”

Sansa looks away with a bitter smile. “My voice in your ear?”

“Aye. It kept me awake at night when I was beyond the Wall. I kept thinking you’d be _furious_ I’d gone on such a reckless mission. You’d give me an earful.”

“You’d be _quite_ right about that.”

He smiles. “I thought about what you’d tell me, how you’d scold me. I missed your scolding.”

“You’re in for a treat then. You’ll only get abuse from me, from now on,” she retorts, meaning to sound cool and commanding. She fails entirely. Their eyes are both smiling. They can’t help it.

Their talk sounds like a gamely exchange, a small flirtation.

She should be giving him the cold shoulder; she should be telling him he has let her down. She should be walking away from him. He doesn't deserve a good word from her. 

Instead, she stares at him and asks him a silent question.

_Did you mean what you told Cersei?_

His demeanor becomes stony. His jaw clenches. But his eyes remain soft, trained on her. 

_I do._

They stand there, among the ruins, too close for brother and sister, too far apart for lovers, confused and troubled by each other.

 

 

Jaime waits for her answer. “Well, will you receive Tyrion or shall I send our brother packing?”

She looks up at her perfect half. Not so perfect anymore. She can see so many cracks in his armor. The golden hand is the least of his blemishes.

“Do you know what that impertinent bastard told me, when you weren’t paying attention?”

Jaime frowns. "Tyrion?"

"No, you utter fool. I speak of Jon Snow."

"Did he threaten you?”

Cersei smiles bitterly. “He said, when your time comes, I will be there to see you die.”

“He said _that_? He’s more of an idiot than I thought. Still wet behind the ears, like the first time I saw him at Winterfell –”

“It was the first time I respected him. Admired him even,” Cersei interrupts him curtly. “Would _you_ have stood up for me like that?”

Jaime smiles and shakes his head. “This must be a jape. The boy is more reckless than his father, there’s nothing to aspire to in that.”

“Would _you_ have stood up for me like that?” she asks again, glaring daggers at him.

Jaime’s expression falters. “He only defended his sister’s common right.”

“He defied the Crown for her.”

Jaime grits his teeth. “He defied the Crown for the Dragon Queen.”

Cersei looks towards the screen that covers her window. She can faintly see the Dragonpit’s ruins, like wisps of black smoke in the distance.

“I wish I had a brother like that.”

Jaime places his golden hand on the table. “Jon Snow doesn’t love his sister like I love you.”

“Doesn’t he?”

Cersei heaves a weary sigh. Everything is disappointment in the world. And the little Stark whore still plagues her thoughts. She wants to see her punished somehow, to see her suffer. Olenna may have poisoned her son, but the “little dove” was the instrument, and she was always too innocent for her own good. It’s strange – she sees in Sansa a younger Cersei sauntering before her, untroubled by vengeance, untainted by sorrow. Maybe she will give her to Euron. The man is aching for a taste. Perhaps when he returns with the Golden Company he will take the wolf bitch as his reward.  

“Bring Tyrion in and shut the door.”

 

 

The Queen of Dragons sees them, hidden among the ruins, smiling at each other. She thinks suddenly _, he does not smile like that with me._

Her heart quietly lurches.

 

 

Cersei marches back in a fury, to everyone’s surprise. Tyrion saunters in her wake, looking troubled but grimly satisfied.

She announces without ceremony that she will send her troops North despite the great insult brought to her name and her House. She emphasizes her _generous_ gesture in the face of such disloyalty.

Difficult times call for difficult measures, she grits between her teeth.

“I hope you will remember I helped you when it was not in my interest to do so,” she says to Daenerys with contempt.

Her eyes turn swiftly over the audience, until she finds Sansa Stark, standing next to her brother.

“As for her, I never want to see her face again. She will never step foot in the Capital as long as I live. In fact, she will remain north of the Neck from hereon. If she does not, I will be at liberty to set Ser Robert upon her.”

Jon visibly pulls his sister towards him, as if shielding her from the Mad Queen. Cersei bites her tongue. How she envies them.

She will make sure to break them apart, one day.

 

 

Sansa is only too happy to oblige the queen’s request. It was _her_ resolution, after all. It's odd how she and Cersei share an ironic understanding. Almost like a pact between old enemies. 

She prepares in a haste to leave the Capital and make for Dragonstone with her small retinue. The Dragon Queen has invited her to sojourn there until they leave for Winterfell.

They have spoken very little and only haltingly, neither of them knowing how to breach anything more personal than traveling preparations. But Sansa has noticed she is a gentle sort, much gentler than Cersei. She is not as fearsome and bloodthirsty as some of the Northern lords seem to think. She might make a good ruler someday… but therein lies the problem. Not everyone _wants_ to be ruled. And Daenerys sees herself a ruler already. In her mind, Westeros is by rights hers. And she won’t give it up. She will defeat the Dead and reclaim it. In fact, to hear her speak of their expedition in the North, she considers it the final challenge, the last obstacle that, once removed, will prove she is the Queen they all deserve and need.

 She will be a different sort of conqueror, but a conqueror none the less. And Sansa can understand this drive only too well. She has lived among the powerful long enough to know the one thing they will never give up is their power. It is what makes them. And it is only human.

In Daenerys’ case, she will never give up her dragons. When the war is over, she won’t have them removed for the safety of her people. They are her children. And she’s already lost one.

On a singular occasion, as they walk together on the parapet overlooking the sea, Dany tells her, in an impersonal voice, that she can never birth offspring of her own, and that the dragons are the only children she has ever nursed and hatched.  She says nothing else, and her grave look warns Sansa not to pry further. It is the only intimate thing she will reveal, but Sansa understands the message behind it.

Her dragons are everything to her, and anyone who might try to harm them is already dead in her eyes.

 

 

Jon is restless and impatient to leave. Dragonstone has become too crowded with his sister and her retinue. Every day, he regrets not telling Sansa to make directly for Winterfell. Her presence there is stifling. He cannot be the same Jon Snow in front of the Queen; he can't be the nameless bastard who's ready to give his life for the realm. With Sansa here, he is a Stark, whose first duty is to his family.

She is a distraction, leading his thoughts astray. She makes him doubt himself. He can't do right by her _and_ Dany. And he can't choose one or the other. There is _no_ choice to make. The war is here. Inside him too. There's a constant battle in his head, and he is fighting it alone. 

 

 

He is pacing outside the castle with Ser Davos and Grey Worm, consulting on the more spacious holdfasts in the North which can house the Unsullied, when he sees Sansa walking along the shore. She is throwing pebbles in the sea, red hair whipping in the wind. He slowly loses track of his words and only follows the movement of her hands. What a quaint thing to do, he can’t remember the last times he did something so innocent.

The waves lap at her feet as she throws each rock into their depths. 

“Jon? What are you thinking?” Ser Davos asks him expectantly. He has to excuse himself and say that he wasn’t listening.

 

 

Other times, he is sitting with Daenerys at the Painted Table, drawing up strategies for defending the Wall and Sansa will walk in with Lady Brienne and plant herself in the seat next to his, breaking his concentration. She does not do it on purpose, but her presence makes him self-conscious. He wants Sansa to think well of him and it hinders him. He is tongue-tied, like a boy. He hates himself, almost. 

She always has something useful to contribute, though, and the Queen appreciates her advice, though it is clear she would like Sansa to show more deference.  It is complicated and unpleasant, but it’s a talk he must have with his sister. He’s bent the knee, and so must she. Sansa unconsciously acts as if she is on the same footing with Daenerys.

And perhaps it’s his fault too. He looks at her more often than he looks at his Queen. It’s only a familiar reflex. He is accustomed to her face. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

 

Sansa speaks to Theon in the throne room. She tells him she will ask Jon forgiveness in his stead. She wishes him luck. She wants him to come back alive.

Bring Yara home, she tells him softly.

Theon takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles fiercely. He has small tears in his eyes. 

Jon watches from the wings, fists clenched painfully. For a moment, he wishes violence on the Greyjoy. Afterwards, he feels disgusted with himself. Why should he deny the poor man a second chance? Hasn't he suffered enough?

But he remembers how they used to talk when they were boys. When he was in his cups, Theon would confess to the bastard things he wouldn't tell Robb.

He dreamt of marrying Sansa and becoming a true Stark.

 Jon will forgive him his betrayals, but he will not forgive him that dream. 

 

 

Dany is tired of being unloved. She has craved true and honest affection all her life. She thought she found it in Jon Snow, but his friendship is meager and his soft words are few and far between. She _could_ make him fall in love, but not while his sister is here. Their bond is strange and inexplicable. They are not lovers of the flesh, yet they feel for each other in a way that is not common.

Dany regrets inviting her here, but the deed is done. The sooner they make for Winterfell, the better. Perhaps it is the Dead that are causing this sickness. The White Walkers are spreading their festering illness across the land, corrupting hearth and family. When they are extinguished, maybe Jon will forget this strange obsession, maybe Sansa will marry a gentle Northern lord. She could make arrangements for the right suitor. All this nonsense will have been a dream.

But that is the distant future. She needs companionship now.

Ser Jorah places a warm hand on her back.

“What troubles you, khaleesi?”

She smiles at her old bear. So many things have happened, so much has been destroyed and reborn, but she is still khaleesi to him. He loves her more than anyone else.

“You told me I should fly to Winterfell. Jon tells me to walk. It sends a better message, he says. But if I have come to save the North, _they_ must also come to know _who_ their savior is. They must understand a dragon is not only a weapon.”

Ser Jorah nods. “Aye. If they cannot accept the dragon, they cannot accept you.”

 

 

Sansa is trying to untangle the knots in her hair. The weather on this island is a terror to her locks. The sea spray and the winds have made an irreparable mess of her braids.

Someone knocks at her chamber door.

“Come in.”

Jon is met with the sight of red hair spilling down her back, coming undone like silk. He swallows thickly.

“I’ve only come to let you know we sail for White Harbor in the morn.”

“So soon?” she turns in her seat.

“Aye, we cannot delay any longer.” And there are many hidden meanings in the spaces between his words.

_He_ knows and _she_ knows that they have been avoiding moments like these, when the two of them are alone and the silence is deafening and there is no one and nothing to distract them from the conversation they must have.

_Warden of the North._

It's the ghost between them.

She nods warily. “It’s true. We can’t.”

She should let him leave before she says anything else. If they are meant to fight and shout, she doesn’t want to do it here, where the Queen might hear.

But before he can turn away, she says, “Could you help me with this knot? I can’t unravel it.”

It’s true her hair has decided to punish her, but she shouldn’t ask this of him. She shouldn’t invite him closer. She doesn’t know why she does it. Does she miss him this much? He’s right _here_ , why would she need him closer?

It’s silly, she’s tired, she just wants to sleep and forget everything, forget the past months, forget their companionship, forget that she jumped into his arms at Castle Black and he held her there so tight, he held her for a small eternity–

Jon’s hand is suddenly on her hair. She gives a start.

“Are you all right?” he asks in a queer voice.

“Yes.”

He stands behind her, rigid as a statue. She can almost hear the tension in his muscles, the grind of his teeth. He parts her locks to the side slowly. His fingers ghost at the back of her neck. Sansa’s breath hitches.

He tugs gently at first. The twisted strands won’t give. He pulls harder. The hair only seems to wind more stubbornly around his fingers. He yanks it with a sudden desperate need. He tears at the locks savagely, dragging her scalp forward, sinking his whole hand in, wanting to bury himself there. Sansa releases a soft gasp.

The braids give away.

He blinks, startled.

He moves his hand away quickly.

Sansa looks at him over her shoulder. There is bright color in her cheeks. Her hair looks wild and untamed. Her lips are ripe. Did he do that?

“Thank you,” she says uncertainly.

Jon has to look away and make sense of his surroundings. He in her room, on Dragonstone, and she is his sister and _Gods_ , what _was_ he thinking about? His mind is a blank. He can’t remember. It was nothing good.

“Good night,” he mumbles, making a stiff exit. It will be all right once they’re back at Winterfell. They’ll fall back into a normal rhythm. He will convince her kneeling was the right thing to do. They will sail this stormy sea together. They _must_.

“Good night,” Sansa whispers in his absence.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter, guys. next chapter. a big fight, and a big something else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the delay, i ran into some bad writer's block and couldn't get out until i sorted out my feelings. anyway, i kind of suck at writing smut, but i hope you like it! (i certainly enjoyed writing this chapter)

She is playing a game of cyvasse with Tyrion below deck. It’s not going very well as she’s no match for the Queen’s Hand and his sharp mind. In her defense, she’s never played this intricate game before, though she enjoys its logical outcome, its infinite possibilities. She feels she might be good at it one day. She likes moving the pieces on the board. It’s a suitable distraction.

Halfway through a third round, she feels a pair of eyes on the back of her neck.

“Ah, Lord Snow,” Tyrion greets, raising his cup of wine, “come to join us for a game? I promise I will not be too savage. Though, your sister is taking it quite well.”

Sansa shakes her head, self-conscious. “You’re too kind, my lord, I’m doing very poorly actually.”

She cranes her neck to catch her brother’s eye.

Jon stares at them rather sourly for a moment. She wonders what has put him in a mood. Of late, he’s taken to brooding more vigorously, but he appears irritated by something in particular. 

His features relax, however, when he approaches their table.

“I spoke with the captain. We’re being strayed off course. Ill weather.”

Tyrion frowns. “How long will this detour last?”

“Only a few days, I imagine,” Jon says, staring at the cyvasse board where her pieces are being decimated.

“This will worry our Queen.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it, unless you can command the winds, my lord,” Jon replies, his tone slightly pinched. 

Tyrion looks up at her brother with shrewd eyes.

“The sea was very rough this morning,” Sansa says, to fill up the silence. “It’s a good thing we are taking precautions. Better safe than sorry.”

“Wise words, my lady,” Tyrion mutters, returning his attention to the board. He moves his dragon against her elephant, effectively beating her.

Sansa gives an amused shrug. “I never stood a chance.”

“That’s what you said to me all those years ago in King’s Landing, and look at you now.” Tyrion means this as a sincere compliment, but it doesn’t feel right with Jon there.

She catches a flash in his eyes. He’s displeased again, but he won’t say it.

He _has_ noticed she has been spending most of her time with the Lannister instead of him. Can he blame her? She has been trying to avoid an argument that has been bubbling for weeks. They both know they have to air their grievances at one point, but she’s choosing to delay the moment. Is it so wrong of her? To crave peace for one more day?

 

 

Jon almost wants to thank the sea. He wishes their sojourn could last forever. 

He dreads landing at White Harbor and riding to Winterfell. He dreads the moment the gates will open and his people will stare at the King who gave up his crown. He dreads Sansa’s eyes the most, the way she will seize him up once they are alone.

 _Why_ won’t she be alone with him now?

He knows why… But they must talk of it. They can’t keep this silence any longer. They must have it out, and afterwards…afterwards, if she hasn’t forgiven him, he will have to find a way to make things right.

It just irks him that Tyrion Lannister is at her side constantly, entertaining her with games and compliments. He knows the dwarf means well, and he’s always liked him for his honesty, but he doesn’t like the way he stares at Sansa. With admiration and…something else. He used to be her husband, after all, and he might desire to reignite their union.

Jon shakes his head as he blows into his candle wick, extinguishing the flame. The ceremony was never acted on, Tyrion said so himself. They were never truly husband and wife.

And why should this bother him anyway? If they survive this dreadful nightmare, if the Others are defeated, Sansa will want her own family, won’t she?

It would be good to set old wounds aside and have a Lannister alliance.

Jon lies down in bed and stares at the wooden boards above his head. He wants to stop feeling like he’s swallowed a bitter draught. He wants the feeling in his chest, like the scratching of _claws_ , to go away.

He wants…so many things.

 

 

She only comes up on deck when the sun is out and the gales have stopped blowing. Still, her red hair whips back and forth in the wind like a crimson garland.

He likes staring at it from afar. He likes its wildness. It reminds him of a bloody arrow, slinging through the mist. It reminds him of his past, of the love he mourned.

He’d like to go up to her and stand by her side, but he doesn’t want to disturb her.

Sansa looks at him over her shoulder and smiles, but it is a cold smile, cold as the sea.  

 

 

She’s having a nightmare. It’s queer. She _knows_ she’s having a dream because as she’s weaving through the corpses she knows this cannot be _real_. Not yet.

She is walking through Winterfell, only it is a castle in ruins. It was already besieged by Theon and Ramsay, but this time, the conqueror was not human. The walls are crumbling in her wake, the steps are coated in dry blood. The thatching on the roof is raining down on her tattered garments. The sky is a paltry grey, the grey of total dissolution. It starts to snow.

She lifts up her hand to catch the snowflakes. At least there’s something alive in this scenery.

Yet as the white fluffs pool into her hand, she notices their eerie softness, like a dusty powder.

It’s not snow. It’s _ash_.

She suddenly hears the naked cry of a beast. Its screech is like that of a man’s throat being cut. Whatever it is, it is drawing close.

She starts to run through the masonry of the collapsed towers, afraid that the beast will catch her, afraid that it will _burn_ her and she will become ash too. She can hear wings flapping at her back and a warm breath on the back of her neck, and she can hear someone's  _horrible_ laughter. A woman’s laugh.

Sansa screams and stumbles against a fallen column. She shields her face from the horror, crying out for mercy, feeling the fire at her feet and –

A firm hand grips her shoulder, lifting her from the ground.

“It’s all right, you’re all right, Sansa, _look_ at me – you’re safe –”

She fights against his body as if she were drowning. Her hands beat against his chest, but he cradles her fists and holds her tight, silencing her struggle.

“It was only a dream, it was only a dream,” he whispers into her hair, running a warm hand down her back.

Sansa’s cries gradually subside and her heart stops pounding. She inhales her brother’s comforting scent and buries her head in his shoulder.

“She was – she was going to burn me,” she whispers, shoulders racking with strain.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he says gruffly and he presses his lips to the top of her head. “I won’t let them.”

“I heard her laughing,” Sansa says, tensing under his hold. Her body is made of sharp angles and he cannot contain them.

Jon lifts up her chin and his warm fingers cup the side of her face. “Sansa. Look at me.”

She stares back at him, her eyes still curtained by her dream. His face is full of concern and affection and she doesn’t know how to respond to it.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you. Ever,” he says and his warm breath hits her face just as the dragon’s breath hit the back of her neck in her dream.

She can’t help the accusing look that worms into her eyes. “Not even her?”

_Not even Daenerys?_

Jon grips her jaw between his fingers until it hurts. She winces.

“No one,” he repeats, and his eyes glaze over. Her nightgown has fallen off slightly, exposing the curve of her shoulder.

He swallows thickly, staring at the bare skin as if it were a ghost. He wants to pull up her nightgown, to cover her, but his hand is frozen on her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asks uncertainly, as if reaching a hand in the dark. She wants to move away from him, but she finds it impossible to disentangle herself.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was patrolling the hall. I heard you screaming.” The words are stiff, almost mechanical in nature. He sounds like he is trying to govern himself. To pull back from whatever precipice he is leaning over.

“You should keep your door locked,” he adds softly, too soft for her ears.

“If I’d done that, you wouldn’t have woken me up. You wouldn’t be here.”

“And that would be… better,” he trails off, his eyes darting from her face to her bare skin. “For both of us.”

Sansa feels her heartbeat steadily going faster, though she’s no longer dreaming. Is she?

“Jon.” _What do you mean?_

His name on her lips seems to snap him from the trance. With a small effort, he wrenches his hand away from her face and clenches it in a fist as he draws back from her. He sits on the edge of her bed, his whole body stiff with shame. He shouldn’t have barged into her room like this. He should have left sooner. He should leave now.

“Jon,” she repeats softly. “Where are we going?”

He turns his head to look at her. He smiles a weary smile. “We’re going back home, to Winterfell. It’s taking a bit longer because the weather’s been –”

“No, Jon. You know what I mean.”

Of course he does. He knows because they have been skirting round this conversation since he first saw her in the Dragon Pit.  

“Where are we going?” Her eyes are unfixed, staring beyond these walls, beyond this ship. Staring into the future. “What is to become of us?” 

Jon inhales slowly, as if filling himself up with words to say, but coming up short. He rises from the bed wearily and starts pacing the length of the room.

Sansa swings her legs over the side of the bed. She flattens down her nightgown and watches him carefully. Small shivers run down her back. It’s cold without him next to her.

“Remember what I told you on the ramparts that day? After we defeated Ramsay?”

Sansa nods halfheartedly, because that seems like such a long time ago. Everything has changed so much since. She wouldn’t call those times innocent, because they’d just rid the world of a monster, but at least she knew where they _stood_.

“You said we need to trust each other.”

Jon pivots and stares at her through the dark. “Do you still trust me?”

She clutches her fingers in her lap. “I want to. But I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Jon nods with a pained look in his eye. “I know. I gave up your family’s right without even telling you.”

Sansa frowns, nails digging into her thighs. “My right? Is _that_ why you think I’m upset?”

He sinks his head bitterly. “A Stark has always ruled at Winterfell, has always ruled the North. And now…”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t like this show of self-pity. We already agreed you are a Stark. To me and to our brother and sister.”

He grits his teeth. “Very well. It’s not about rights. But it is about kin. You feel I have betrayed our family, don’t you?”

Sansa glances sideways, unwilling to meet his gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

Jon strokes his coarse stubble wearily. “You have cause to doubt me. All of you. But everything I have done and will do is for our family, Sansa. I _promise_ you. I need you to trust me there. I am doing this for you.”

“What part has it been for our family? Bending the knee or wooing the Queen?”

The words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them. She’s a bit surprised at herself. She did not intend to ask the second part of that question.

Jon’s head snaps to her and his expression is filled with shock and disgust.

“What did you say?”

She’s never seen him so discomfit.

Sansa rises from the bed quickly, turning her back to him. “Littlefinger said –”

“ _Littlefinger_ ,” he gnashes his teeth as if the name were a curse. “What has that snake told you? Has he poisoned you against me?”

He sounds altered and ferocious. Not like the brother she knows. Not like _anyone_ she knows.

Sansa trembles under her nightgown. “He said that it would be a good alliance, that she is beautiful and that you may have succumbed to her charms. She is a great ruler, after all. And I’ve seen her beauty with my own eyes.”

He’s at her side before she can blink, seizing her arm and making her face him.

“I should have him killed for these lies.”

 _He’s already dead_ , she wants to say, but she finds her voice is stuck in her throat. His eyes scour her as if he can see right through her. She should be shouting at him, cursing him, telling him to get out, but if he left now, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. A part of her needs him close, despite the pain he’s caused.

She couldn’t hate him when she saw him in the Dragon Pit, she can’t hate him now.

Sstill, she lifts her chin defiantly and makes her voice sound clear. “Why should they be lies? It would be an advantageous marriage. I…I’d certainly advise you to do it.” 

He flinches, as if struck by her words. His features contort in pain. “Would you?”

“I…” Sansa is disturbed by his crestfallen look on his face. She pulls back her arm. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t budge, but only keeps staring at her, seeking an answer.

“I said let _go_ , Jon.” Her tone is cool, imperative. The command of the Lady of Winterfell.

He lets her go. And before she knows what’s happening, he’s stalking to her door and slamming it shut in his wake.

Sansa makes it to her bed in a shaking state and lies down on her pillow. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. What does she have to weep about anyway?

 

 

She doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t understand herself. Why should _he_ be so angry? She is the one who has been slighted. And marriage to the Dragon Queen is a sensible proposal… Why should he loathe the idea when he is devoted to her already? He cried out his allegiance to her for all to hear in the Dragon Pit.

 _Yes…but he only made it public to defend you_ , a treacherous voice whispers in her ear.

It doesn’t change the facts. Jon bent the knee, renounced his crown and promised the North to Daenerys. All to repay her support against the Others.

But, Gods willing, it won’t _always_ be winter. Littlefinger was right to ask this question. When the White Walkers are defeated, what will happen to the North, to her, to Jon?

What was settled in good stead during desperate times might not hold when summer returns.

And that’s what angers her so _deeply_ about her brother. He doesn’t think there _will_ be a summer after this. He believes the present moment is all they have.

Sansa stares at her letters on the writing desk. The words carved of black ink, so quickly snuffed by the clang of swords and the fire of dragons. Why does she bother to write them?

But then she retrieves the short missive Jon sent to her, the letter that started her on the journey.

_Sansa,_

_Daenerys Targaryen has pledged her dragons and her forces to our cause…._

She crumples the paper in her fist. Perhaps…the present moment is the only thing that matters.

 

 

“You love her dearly, don’t you?”

Jon is startled by the words. He looks up to find Tyrion Lannister regarding him with an almost sympathetic grimace.

The waves howl against the hull, making the benches slide on the polished floor. They are taking supper together.

Sansa has already left the hall and taken her plate to her cabin. Jon was caught staring at her empty seat.

“Aye, she’s my sister,” he replies gruffly, turning back to his plate.

“I have a sister too, you know, but I’m not terribly fond of her.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Jon returns with a bitter smile.

Tyrion raises his cup of wine. He’s always got one by his side. “She’s a right old bitch, my sister. But I might heave a sigh when she dies. Family is contagious like that. They get under your skin, don’t they? No matter how much you want to feel nothing, you always end up feeling _more_.”

Jon stabs at the remains of his kidney pie. “You’d like to save Cersei, if you could?”

“I can’t save her. She can only save herself at this point. She’s always been self-destructive. I think, deep down, she _wants_ to go down in flames.”

Jon swallows, thinking of the Dragon Queen’s ire and how quickly Cersei could get her wish.

“Be careful, Lord Snow,” Tyrion tells him suddenly, snapping him from his thoughts. “I know to stay away from my sister. _Jaime_ did not and look at him now. He’s on the losing side of this war.”

Jon feels a dull pressure in his chest. He can’t breathe. He rises abruptly, making the bench clatter. “Pardon me, my lord. I need some air.”

 

 

She stands before his door, undecided. Her fist is raised to knock, but half of her body is turned away, as if to flee. What is she afraid of? He won’t hurt her.

She knocks three times.

Jon opens the door and inhales sharply when he sees her standing there. He notices that she’s holding something in her hand.

He moves aside and lets her step through. The folds of her dress billow in her wake.

She hands him the scrap of paper wordlessly and clasps her hands over her front. Jon unrolls the letter and reads his own ungainly words on the parchment. _I have pledged our forces to Daenerys as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

He winces and looks up at his sister.

Sansa’s face is shuttered. She is smooth as stone, revealing nothing. She must have learnt this skill in the capital.

Jon swallows thickly. He walks towards the small hearth in the wall where a few embers are burning.

He drops the letter inside and watches it twist and curl as it burns.

Sansa did not expect him to get rid of it so quickly.  She stares at the fire with her lips slightly parted.

“Sansa,” he begins slowly, in the cadence of a letter, “I have pledged our forces to Daenerys Targaryen as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. With her help, we will stand a chance against the Army of the Dead. When the war has been fought and won, I will give up my title as Warden of the North to you. If it be your command, I will help you regain the North’s independence against the Dragon Queen. I will make you Queen of the North. Yours, Jon Snow.”

Sansa blinks quickly. She feels as if the ship has tilted on its axis, as if a powerful gale has shaken its balance. She leans her back against his bedpost.

“That is the letter I wanted to write,” Jon says with a strange smile that does not reach his eyes. “But you can see how I would have angered quite a few people and given myself away.”

Sansa feels elation and horror mixing in her veins. So he _has_ been thinking of the future. He has been thinking of summer.

She shakes her head stubbornly. “I don’t want to be queen, Jon.”

He laughs with sadness. “That’s a shame, because I have no other clever plan. I’m not good at schemes.”

“You would betray the Dragon Queen?”

“Not betray,” he contradicts as a shadow falls across his face. “I never promised her anything beyond this war. If I am no longer Warden, I can give her nothing.”

“You would have me fight her instead,” she says with a small smile.

Jon grins, though it looks like a grimace. “Aye. For you are stronger than me. And more deserving.”

“Hush, you’re speaking nonsense.”

“The truth often sounds like nonsense, I find.”

Sansa walks up to him and places a hand on his arm. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

His whole body gives a jolt of electricity. His eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock.

Sansa frowns. “What’s wrong?”

He wants to scream and he wants to laugh and he wants the Gods to stop playing _games_. 

“Why did you say that?” he asks, his voice no louder than a whisper. 

“I…I was only teasing,” she mumbles, disconcerted by his reaction.

Jon clasps her hand and stares down at their entwined fingers. “It’s what she used to say…”

“Who?”

 _Ygritte_. He can still hear her soft sighs as she died in his arms. He can still see her red hair catching fire. He shakes his head.

“The Red Woman,” he replies.

“Melisandre?”

Jon nods and grips her hand in his, feeling the heat of her living body, the proof of her singularity.  His sister is not a ghost. She is alive, and she’ll remain that way until he takes his last breath. He won’t let Sansa perish the way Ygritte did. He won’t let this love fail –

 _Love_. It makes him shudder. The idea that he could love his sister in the same way is unnatural. Ghastly.

Yet he finds himself staring at her soft lips. He’s mesmerized by the way she runs her tongue over them nervously and he wonders what they taste like. Has she ever been kissed? By whom? Joffrey, Ramsay...or possibly others? Have they stolen her kisses, have they forced them from her with a sword? None of them deserved her touch. But is _he_ worthy?

Jon can't think straight. He’s drunk too much of Tyrion’s wine, perhaps. Or it was those damnable words. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Sansa’s face inches closer to his. He doesn’t know whether he’s pulled her to him or she has pulled him to her. It doesn’t matter. There’s a thread between them which tugs in the same direction. They stare at each other as if they are afraid to breathe. One false movement and the whole edifice might crash.

 _Jon_. He hears her voice in his head, but not her lips moving.

 _Sansa_ , he calls back.

And then he’s kissing her. He doesn’t know how it all crumbles. How he lost control. But he did. It feels like being slammed into a wall.

Their lips crash into each other in a graceless dance. There are no coordinates in sight, nothing to guide them. It is mouth on mouth like children, like hungry pups who cannot wait for the spoils their mother would bring. They must partake in each other now, for they only have this moment.  After this, there will be only drought and famine. And she tastes – _Gods_ – she tastes like nothing in this world, like a long-lost fragment of himself, like winter apples, ripe and cold and divine. He takes a mouthful, but it is not enough. He wants to consume every last drop. He wants to drink the whole sea.

He draws back sharply, his lips tingling. The enormity of what he’s done makes him stagger. Sansa’s lips are red, her skin flushed and delicious. It only makes their sin more odious.

She sinks her hands in his doublet.  “We – _can’t_ – you’re – my –”

“I know,” he says, breathing like a dragon, his pupils lost in the darkness of his eyes. “I know.”

Her voice pleads with him. “Where are we going, Jon?”

_What is to become of us?_

 

 

They only have the present. They might all perish in the Great War. They might perish on the morrow.

It’s what they tell themselves as he presses feverish kisses to her throat, teeth scraping against skin, and she run her fingers through his curls, pulling and tugging with need. Their caresses are peppered with guilt and shame, but they can’t seem to stop the inevitable. His hands squeeze her waist, fingers clawing into her dress until it starts to tear. Their skins are on fire and they must shed clothes or else burn. He rips through her garments, warm hands parting her petticoats, cupping a breast, feeling it flutter against his palm like a small bird. He is afraid she might slip away. He is afraid this is all a dream and he might wake up and hold only her shadow. He wants to behold every part of her, to taste and suck and lick and mark as his. Sansa moans in sweet anguish as he bends his head and takes her breast in his mouth, sucking and kneading the sensitive flesh, tongue swirling around her pebbly nipple, making her stand on her toes with pleasure.

Her heart beats painfully in her chest. It is forbidden. _This_ is forbidden. But she doesn’t want it to end. She can feel Jon’s hardness through his breeches, pressing up against her thigh.

And yet, she is nervous. She has never felt more nervous in her life. This is her first time, her _true_ first time. Ramsay never even bothered to undress her properly.

And he notices, because Jon _always_ does. Jon knows what she is feeling under the skin, deep in her heart.

His mouth breathes against hers. “I will never hurt you.”

 

 

(she is on the ramparts again and he is kissing her forehead. his lips have not left her skin since)

 

 

Tyrion stands in the hallway, his face beset with dark foreboding. He can hear the sounds coming from his cabin. Young lovers do not heed caution. They are too hungry for each other.

He lowers his forehead, because the damage can’t be undone. His Queen will be furious.

 

 

“Gods – I want you – so much –” he rasps as their foreheads collide and he is secured between her thighs. His hands roam over her body in defiance of everything he has been taught, of his father’s memory, of Catelyn Stark’s shadow. He maps her skin with his tongue, lingering wherever he can steal her harsh, breathy moans which send him on a mad spiral. 

He trails kisses down her belly and her eyes flutter shut as his thumb parts her red curls and traces her swollen clit. Her juices coat his fingers and he licks them hungrily. When his tongue delves between her folds she gives a sharp cry, like a wounded bird. Sansa never knew you could do something so wonderful and terrible to someone. One of her legs drags against his back, pulling him closer unconsciously. He sucks on her clit, entering her with his finger, curling his finger inside her, hitting her center until it becomes unbearable. He keeps a steady hand on her thighs, letting the pleasure build, making the waves storm the side of the ship, threatening to tip it over.

She is lost at sea. She cries out in abandon. “Jon, Jon _pleeease_ , _ohhhh_ –”

When she comes on his lips he feels invincible. He feels he could die. There. Between her thighs.

 

 

Her nails rake down his back, demanding more. Jon kisses her passionately, like no brother ever did, like only he can. His stubble leaves red marks on her cheeks.

“Are you ready?” he whispers in her ear and she nods, parting her legs further, feeling the tip of his cock against her entrance.

Jon regards her face for a moment. The need aches between them so badly. Once he is inside her, they will be lost for good.

Sansa arches her body against his, rolling her hips, feeling the friction between them. “I want you inside me.”

It is like poison being slipped into his veins, hearing her say it, hearing the truth behind her words. He grips her waist and flips them over, raising her body above his.

Sansa issues a gasp of surprise. Her red hair falls down over him like a curtain. He inhales its sweet scent.

“It will feel better for you,” he assures her, stroking her thighs.

Warmth pools in her belly as she straddles him, her sopping cunt brushing against his cock, so close, almost sinking down, _almost_ –

 “Sansa…” he begs, shutting his eyes against the onslaught of desire. He is afraid he will grab her by that cursed red hair and drive inside her to the hilt. He is afraid of what he wants to do to her.

So he lets her take control.

She takes him inside slowly, every inch making him grit his teeth in despair, bringing him closer to the end. He curses under his breath, damning them both to hell.

Her walls squeeze his cock as she adjusts to his size, and he cries out her name until he is hoarse with it.

She slips her tongue inside his mouth and he bites down. Spit and blood coalesce and it becomes their very air.  

She rides him without restraint, without grace, like feral children, like wolves that have not mated for so long. They have missed this, although it’s their first time.

 

 

("jon, i can't - i'm - _jon_ -

"sansa, oh Gods, oh fuck -"

he comes inside her, though he knows it is a fatal mistake. his seed coats her insides and she wrings every last drop of him. they both know this cannot end well)

 

 

In the morning, the sea is calm. The weather has improved. The captain tells them it will be easy sailing from now on. They will reach White Harbor in two days’ time. They will be home soon.

Tyrion watches them, the cursed Stark children, Jaime and Cersei reborn. They share a secret glance of damnation.

Tyrion knows what it means.

This war – it has only just started.


End file.
